In this house, gas is plentiful – unfortunately, it’s not the kind that fuels cars. The lines for gasoline in New York are outrageous. Tempers are at an all time high and there’s an eerie tension that permeates through the windshield of camped out drivers in line for gas that stretched for seven blocks.
“Gas Zombies,” my husband calls them.
And they do have a glazed look in their eyes, sniffing for fresh gasoline. They look like slaves as they lug back a full gas can to their car parked somewhere populated, I’m sure. Is it smart we trust these morons to pump gas in the middle of the street? Idiots like the ones my husband witnessed in the “Gas Can” line with an empty five-gallon water jug. Fortunately, the police pulled them out of line and explained to them that it’s illegal. Can you believe, they put up a fight.
Taxis and commercial vehicles, I can understand. It’s their livelihood. But the other folks? Where do they need to go that they need their cars so badly? At this rate, everybody’s going to be out of gas – as it is, private cab companies are telling their customers there are no vehicles to service them because they’re all out of gas. Do we wait for 911 to tell us there are no ambulances to help them for the same reason before people get off their fat asses?
Any day now, I’m expecting Lord Humungus to show up at the Hess station and demand all the drivers with full gas tanks to just “Walk Away.”
Instead, I saw a woman – probably in her fifties – in her walking outfit and going down the middle of the street doing something I pictured my mother would do: she was going from car to car, yelling at the drivers to get out and walk like everybody else!
If I had my tuba with me, I’d have walked behind and cheered her on. Hope she doesn’t get shot.